


Misunderstandings

by lady_wordsmith



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Blackouts, Drinking, F/M, Fluff, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Reader, Oblivious Steve Rogers, Reader-Insert, Romance, Tiny bit of Angst, hangovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 08:40:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7632994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_wordsmith/pseuds/lady_wordsmith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>To Steve (1:32AM): Hey…can u pcik me up? im to drnuk.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>To Steve (2:06AM): oh u dnt have to anymore.. im home now</i>
  <br/>
  <b>From Steve (2:17AM): Yes, I was aware of that after dropping you off at home.</b>
</p><p>You went out drinking last night, and wake up to a note from Steve asking you to call him when you wake up. Naturally, you remember nothing and assume you were a giant asshole the night before.<br/>It works out.</p><p>(Request by multiple readers for a Fluffy!Steve fic to make up for the <i>Steve's Diary Tetralogy</i>. Inspired by <a href="http://mystical-misadventures.tumblr.com/post/146012698117/toplad-thiss-is-so-funny-to-me">this tumblr post</a>).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Misunderstandings

The first thought that occurs to you as you wake up is that _Sweet baby Jesus, something died in my mouth last night_! The second is that when you open your eyes, you realize your bed is thankfully empty. No drunken hookups for you. Though you are in just your underwear, it doesn’t worry you. You must have had more coordination than usual last night after your drunken revelry.

Your eyes drift to the nightstand, seeing a bottle of Perrier, two ibuprofen pills, and a small note.

Normally, the note would worry you. Or annoy you, depending on your mood. Usually notes, in these circumstances, are left by chickenshit one-night-stands who have decided to fuck and run ( _How rude!_ ). The presence of the Perrier and ibuprofen, however, suggest that the note was left by someone familiar with your post-drinking routine, which was a short list of suspects. Only your siblings and a few close friends have heard you praise the values of mineral water and ibuprofen as a hangover cure.

You really hope it wasn’t Steve. You really hope if it was that you didn’t embarrass yourself.

Swigging the Perrier and taking the ibuprofen, you reach for the note.

**Call me when you feel less dead. We need to talk. –Steve**

Well, fuck. Your nerves are no less heightened when you grab your phone and check your texts.

 

_To Steve (1:32AM): Hey…can u pcik me up? im to drnuk._

_To Steve (2:06AM): oh u dnt have to anymore.. im home now_

**From Steve (2:17AM): Yes, I was aware of that after dropping you off at home.**

_Fuck_. This isn’t good.

* * *

 

After you shower and dress, you call Steve. It rolls over to voicemail, so you leave a message.

“Hey, it’s me… Um… I’m going to assume I was an asshole last night, and I’m _really_ sorry. If it makes you feel any better, the headache’s still kicking my ass. Don’t worry, though, I’ll be chugging water ‘cause it’s probably just the dehydration or something.” You bite your lip. “Uh, thanks for picking my drunken ass up, by the way. Call me later? Bye, Steve.”

You hang up with a sigh, running a hand through your hair.

You’re really actually hoping you were just a garden variety asshole last night, or even just a mild drunken annoyance to Steve. Any other options make you more than a little nervous.

You’ve been friends with Steve for about three years now, since you moved to New York City. You had met Steve by chance as you were walking to the subway. You had been carrying some books in your arms, and you had accidentally collided with Steve, sending your books flying. He had apologized and helped you pick up your books, pausing and looking at one of the books with interest.

“ _Ulysses_?” he had asked you. “I remember the obscenity trials about this one.”

At the time, you didn’t know who he was and didn’t realize he had been alive during the trials. He had laughed about that later when you confessed it to him. But at the time, your eyes had lit up over the prospect of discussing _Ulysses_ with someone outside of your fellow literature majors, and it was an instant connection for both of you.  From there, you had bonded easily over endless cups of coffee and literature discussions.

You’re not sure when you fell for him. You’re sure it was somewhere between a discussion of E.M. Forster and the late night heart-to-heart where you finally told Steve about why you had moved to New York, why you had transferred schools with your program almost over. By then, you felt like you could tell him anything, without judgment or pity, and you were right. He didn’t judge you as you told him about leaving for New York City with just the clothes on your back and whatever you could fit in your purse and a small suitcase. It was a strange place for a clean break, but Steve understood what you meant when you said that you needed the noise of the city to drown out your own thoughts.

It was only then you admitted to yourself that you were in love with him, though you weren’t sure when the balance had tipped. Of course, you had resigned yourself to admiration from a distance. Steve wasn’t looking for a girlfriend, you told yourself. He was only just getting used to the modern world. You were friends, and that was all. It would have to be enough.

Still, sometimes you felt that spark of hope, even if it eventually would be buried under despair when Steve didn’t confess to returning your feelings. You were sure he would tell you he loved you when you graduated and he gifted you with a first edition of _A Passage to India_. Even with the soiling, staining, and nicks on the cloth beneath the dust jacket, you could tell it was in fine enough condition that it had to have cost Steve major bank, easily into the thousands of dollars. Not a gift for a casual friend, you thought. It disappointed you when the night of your small graduation party ended without a confession of love from Steve. You tried to ignore it by looking ahead to your graduate program; you had been accepted to an English literature Ph.D. program due to completing a master’s degree during your undergrad years, and you were proud of your accomplishments even if your personal life was a total fail.

Of course, that old hope sparked again when your birthday came around and Steve gave you a very personal, very heartfelt gift. Your fault for thinking his paying attention when you told him you liked the smell of dried orange peel meant anything.

 

> _Steve had wished you a happy birthday and handed you a small bag tied closed with a ribbon. You smiled, thanked him, and undid the ribbon. The smell of spices hit you immediately, and your smile grew wider as you looked in the bag._
> 
> _“Potpourri? Thank you, Steve!” You said, inhaling the smell again. “Mmm, you’re going to have to tell me where you got this.”_
> 
> _Steve smiled and you thought you saw the faint hint of a blush on his cheeks. “I made it for you, actually.” He told you, looking at you for a moment before letting his eyes fall._
> 
> _“You made it?” you ask, and Steve nodded. “Steve that’s so… Thank you so much!”_
> 
> _You took another smell of the potpourri as you looked at it in the bag._
> 
> _“Orange peels,” you murmur softly._
> 
> _“You said you liked them.” Steve said._
> 
> _“I do.” You say with a smile, still letting the scent of the potpourri drift over you. “What else is there? I smell cinnamon and cloves… Maybe nutmeg?” Steve nods. “What else, though? There’s something but I can’t seem to place it.”_
> 
> _“I remembered that you like using that vanilla and bourbon extract when you bake. It seemed like a good idea.”He tells you._
> 
> _You laugh as the final piece of why the potpourri smells so good to you clicks into place._
> 
> _“Thank you, Steve. It’s a wonderful gift. I appreciate it.”_

There had been a long period of silence that followed as you looked for a dish to put the potpourri in. You thought he would say something, but he just wished you a happy birthday again and left. You were disappointed, but you admitted to yourself that he just didn’t feel the same and focused on your coursework, trying to tell yourself a friendship with Steve was better than nothing. That Steve was just the kind of guy who put a lot of thought into his gifts and that you were putting meaning behind them that wasn’t there.

You really hoped you hadn’t messed anything up last night. You liked being friends with Steve, even if it wasn’t the ideal scenario. The idea that you had ruined it after a night of celebratory drinking was terrifying to you.

* * *

 

You call Steve again an hour or so later, hanging up when you get voicemail again. Steve doesn’t call you back, but a couple hours later when you’re finally feeling like one of the living again, your door buzzer goes off. You’re pretty sure it’s him.

“It’s me. Can I come up?” Steve asks over the intercom.

You buzz him up with a sigh.

“Might as well get it over with.” You mutter to yourself.

You open the door before Steve has a chance to knock and step aside to allow him in. Closing the door, the two of you stand in the dining area, looking at each other. You speak first.

“Look, I had a bit too much last night because I was celebrating the whole passing my candidacy and getting project approval thing, so if I was a bitch last night, I’m _really_ sorry and didn’t mean to be.” You tell him. “The fifth round of scotch was a bad fuckin’ idea and I should really know bet-“

“Do you… What do you…? What are you talking about?” Steve asks. He seems confused, and you’re not sure whether to be incredulous or confused.

“You left me a note, Steve. Said we needed to talk.” You remind him. “I figured it was to allow me to save face and apologize to you.”

“Yeah, I left a note. But that was because _I_ wanted to apologize.” He says, sounding… upset? You’re not sure.

And why the fuck would Steve feel like he needed to apologize, anyway? You touch a hand to your temple, feeling the slight phantom twinge of that earlier headache.

“Okay, I think that we should back up a second.” You tell him, walking to your kitchen area and getting some water from the faucet. Steve watches you, and you see a slight note of approval in his eyes as you drink the water. He always worries about you when you’re less than healthy, even if it’s by your own doing. It’s why he left you the mineral water and pain pills, you think. Even when he’s worried about his own fuckups, he makes sure to take care of you.

 _It makes Steve a good friend_ , you think as you put the water glass away and face him again.

“I literally remember nothing after that fifth round of scotch I mentioned earlier, which tells me I need to stop drinking with my cohorts in the literature department because they’re all fucking alcoholics. I didn’t even know I texted you to pick me up until I checked my phone this morning.” You tell him.

Steve lets out a soft snort of laughter at that, and you playfully glare at him.

“So what happened that you think you need to apologize for?” You ask.

Steve frowns and looks away.

“Last night, when I picked you up from the bar… You were acting really… odd.” He tells you.

“Odd how?” you ask. You have a few ideas because you know you’re an… interesting kind of drunk, but there’s a lot of different kinds of drunk you could have been last night. Especially with scotch involved.

Steve looks uncomfortable. “You kept trying to hug me as I was taking you home, and telling me all this stuff, like how good a guy I was and everything.”

“Oh, God.” You mumble in embarrassment, blushing and hiding your face from Steve. “I’m such an ass. I’m sorry.”

Steve shakes his head, as if to brush your apology away. “When I got you home…” And you realize now that Steve’s blushing at the memory of it. “You started taking off your clothes and asking me if you looked nice. I tried to get you to put something on and… And you asked me if I liked you and then…”

Steve trails off, and that pretty much terrifies you. You know Steve’s a good guy and wouldn’t have taken advantage of you. You’re more worried about your own drunken and idiotic behavior. You’ve never been a flirtatious drunk, but you suppose there’s a first time for everything.

“What?” you ask.

“You kissed me. And I kissed back. And I’m really sorry, because you were drunk and I know you don’t feel that way about me like I feel for you. And that’s okay. But I didn’t want you thinking I was some jackass who would do that to you.” Steve says, the entire thing coming out in a rush.

“What?” you ask again, your mind stuck on the whole bit about feelings.

“I just, I’ve been in love with you for a while, and I was just too afraid to tell you. I figured you were just politely ignoring it, anyway. And then last night happened and I didn’t want you thinking I was some kind of ass who would take advantage-“

“You love me?” You ask him, looking into Steve’s eyes. He looks like a deer in headlights.

“For a while.” He confesses. “That’s why I got you that first edition Forster, and I made you that potpourri. I thought… I thought if I couldn’t say it, that maybe getting you things you liked would be an indication of it, you know? I just thought maybe you were too nice to turn me down, because you wanted to spare my feelings.”

Of course. It all makes sense to you now.

 _You are a fucking idiot_ , you tell yourself, stepping closer to Steve.

“Steve… I thought _you_ were just being nice.” You tell him. “I figured that I was just reading too much into things, you know?” You smile at him, feeling both happy and foolish.

“You… What?” Steve asks, and you almost feel like laughing, because you and Steve are a pair of absolute idiots.

“I love you, you idiot. That’s why I kissed you last night.” You tell him. “Well, I’m assuming that love had a lot to do with it, but the alcohol probably helped.”

And then you actually _do_ laugh, wrapping your arms around Steve as you do. He looks at you with wide, disbelieving eyes, like he has no idea what to do now. Poor guy, you don’t blame him for being confused.

“I love you, Steve.” You tell him again. Then you give him a wicked smile. “You can kiss me now, you know. I’ll actually remember it this time.”

He does, and you do.

**Author's Note:**

> A first edition of _A Passage to India_ in the condition described costs [about $11,500](http://www.biblio.com/book/passage-india-forster-em/d/269185410), so I would say yes, that is a big hint how Steve feels. The homemade potpourri just cinches it (I mean, the man dried orange peels and mixed them together with an extract he knew you used and some other stuff. Giant hint!)  
>  I hope this was fluffy enough.


End file.
